


I Love it Loud: A Team Free Will 2.0 Domestic Ficlet

by 1stAmndmntGirl



Series: Team Free Will 2.0 Domestic Ficlets [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Funny, I know; I'm disappointed as well, Sorry no smut this time, Team Free Will 2.0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1stAmndmntGirl/pseuds/1stAmndmntGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Sam, Cas, Kevin Tran and Crowley live together in the bunker, usually in some weird form of harmony. That is, unless you bring up the topic of music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love it Loud: A Team Free Will 2.0 Domestic Ficlet

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine this about two months after the season eight finale.
> 
> The first in the Team Free Will 2.0 Domestic Ficlet series, even though the thingy says its the second. Don’t listen to the thingy. The thingy lies.

When Sam and Dean accepted Cas, Kevin, and Crowley into their bunker, they knew they were mixing a potent cocktail. Of course Cas was allowed to live with them, since he was family, no matter how pissed Dean was at him for leaving the night the angels fell. His moving in was to be expected, and he’d be a great hunter, as he’d been trained for thousands of years in heaven to be one of the best warriors they had.

Kevin had been kind of an obvious move, too. He was the only living prophet of God, and if there was any key to opening Heaven again and giving the angels their mojo back, he would be the one to find it somewhere on the angel tablet. He had to be kept safe, and as his mother was apparently dead and Garth was still MIA, he had no one else.

Crowley though, he was an issue, but his living in the bunker was beneficial to both parties. As it was, he wasn’t a fully-cured demon, but they couldn’t leave him where the other demons (specifically Abbadon) could find him. Abbadon hated him, and rumor was, she was the new Queen of Hell, so he needed protection. Plus, he had this new bond with Sam that no one quite understood, and he was useful in going through the records to figure out some of the questions they had about weird possessions and demonic activity.

Not to mention, he knew all the secrets of hell, and if reinstated back into Hell’s ranks, he could tell them that there was an actual cure for demons, and the Winchesters couldn’t allow that. So he lived with them in some sort of harmony when he wasn’t throwing a bitch fit.

So this motley crew lived together well enough—some catfighting did occur, and unfortunately for their reputations, no cats were actually involved, just grown men. Occasionally, they fought over cases, the television they had tentatively hooked up, and who used up all the hot water. After Dean and Sam showed the others how to properly live off credit card fraud, the issues involving wardrobe theft dropped to almost nil. Most often, the issue they fought over was music.

No matter the time of day, they always had music going, which wasn’t the bothersome part. In fact, music was great, and they all played whatever they wanted over the bunker’s intercom. If you didn’t like it, you were told to deal with it. There may be grumbling involved, but they always got past it and played whatever they wanted in revenge later. **That** was the problem.

All the guys had their own tastes. They had grown accustomed to Dean’s failure to accept any music past the early eighties, and dealt with the fact that when he wanted to listen to Led Zeppelin, he played an entire album, and if he had time, he played all of their records back to back. His record collection was growing at a frightening rate, and he already had an entire triple-tier bookshelf with just his music on it. Although he had his own music player, he rarely used it, if ever.

Sam had his iPod with all of his modern music. Whether it be Of Monsters and Men, Nicki Minaj (which Dean thought was just way too fuckin’ weird), The Strokes, or Train, Sam had close to a couple thousand songs of indie, pop, and alternative. He wasn’t very skilled at music trivia, but he knew what he liked and if it had a good sound, he usually downloaded it illegally and stored it on his player.

The former King of Hell was basically a powerless human with mood swings that varied between a humming bundle of smiles, a tearful wreck of a man, and well, a demonic asshole. His taste in music depended on his mood, and when he was mad, he had a strange affinity for heavy metal.

When he was content or depressed, he obeyed his vessel’s wishes and played any of the easy-listening jazz and soft rock his vessel remembered from his days as a moderately successful literary agent. If he was in a good mood, he would sit with Sam and learn how to find and download his own music, but when he was in a bad mood, they’d hear Slayer and Pantera at an ear-splitting volume from his room as he cursed about them being “bloody idiots” and how hard it was to find a decent tailor on Earth.

Kevin was still getting over his animosity towards the former demon, but he still enjoyed antagonizing him with his recent appreciation for rap. Not radio rap, but hardcore gangster stuff that gave the cellist and former Advanced Placement student an interesting edge. One day he brought home a homemade mixed CD from some kids standing by the music store he went to for service on his new cello, and that was it. With Kevin, it was shit that would make Tupac blush or classical, and he wouldn’t accept anything else into his music library.

When it was decided that everyone would just live in the bunker, Dean (well, Mr. Jack Paul Jones, according to the credit card of the week) bought Cas an iPod, and he started filling it up with all of his music, and man, Castiel had weird taste.

Like, **really** weird. He had nature sounds with birds chirping and babbling brooks, hardcore punk rock, hippie folk rock, Christian jazz, acoustic guitar, a mix of Dean and Sam’s music, and something called Tibetan throat singing that sounded like someone shoved a Didgeridoo down a frog’s and made him croak.

The problem was deciding what to play. They originally started off with a schedule, but after the first couple weeks, it had deteriorated to whomever started playing their music first. Dean was really the catalyst that started the issue, because he flipped his lid whenever someone interrupted one of his albums. He was very strict about playing an entire album in one sitting, stating that that was “the only way to listen to the music”, especially when it came to Zeppelin.

Crowley was okay about listening to one Led Zeppelin album, maybe even two, but it got to the point where Dean would play Led Zeppelin I, II, III, IV, and Physical Graffiti in one sitting, and Crowley lost it one day while going through the Men of Letters’ records with Sam. He casually strolled over to where the record player was hooked up to the intercom, and he proceeded to smash Led Zeppelin II and III before Dean tackled him to the ground.

A few weeks after the Zeppelin incident, Kevin and Sam got into it over Kevin deciphering the angel tablet, and Sam hacked into the playlist Kevin had made up and corrupted about a hundred files by splicing them all together to make a sound akin to a cat stuck in a trash compactor. Kevin got back later at Sam later that week by renaming all of his music “Mystery Song” by “Mystery Artist”.

Cas was by no means innocent, because if he couldn’t play his music, he could just sing. Often. And loudly. In fact, he had taken up Tibetan throat singing, and was extremely proud of his new skill. This was what led to the incident the revised Team Free Will had cleverly labeled “That One Breakfast Where Sam Lost His Shit and Pegged Crowley with a Grapefruit”.

Halfway through his breakfast that fateful day, Dean decided he had had enough. Listening to Kevin’s rap at seven a.m. was bad enough, but Cas practicing his Tibetan throat singing in time to the song? Not happening.

Slamming his fork down on his plate, he angrily swung his eyes next to him where Cas was seated, training his voice like the book he had somehow fucking found taught him in between bites of his fruit and bacon. Currently, he was doing his scales.

“Cas, buddy! We need to talk.” Dean announced, his eyes burning into the other three men at the table to help him out on this. No one looked eager to join in and address the issue, with the exception of Crowley who just looked bored and ready to start shit. He was having a _day_ , so this was nothing new.

Cutting off at G, Cas looked at Dean curiously. “About what?”

Dean rolled his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “The singing, man. It’s gotta stop, ‘cause I can’t take this anymore.”

 “This is actually a very good song, Dean. It’s about growing up and rising above the hardships of the ‘ghetto’,” he used air quotes for the word “ghetto”, as he still wasn’t completely sure what the word meant, but he thought it was referring to the Jewish ghettos of WWII. “You should listen to it.”

Crowley chuckled darkly before he replied, “He meant your singing, love.”

Cas and Crowley still disliked one another, but their intense hatred had faded with their supernatural abilities, so it was more constant bickering than warring. It didn’t stop Cas from giving his patented squint in Crowley’s direction, urging a smirk from the smaller man with the occasional Scottish accent, depending on how sassy he felt.

Kevin, who sat between Crowley and Cas, cleared his throat awkwardly, staring at the remnants of his breakfast like he’d rather be anywhere but there. He sipped his orange juice and examined his nails with an intensity of a judgmental manicurist.

“Dean wouldn’t mean my Tibetan throat singing.” Cas protested.

Sighing dramatically (hell, he did everything dramatically), Crowley replied, “Yes, your lover does indeed mean your attempt at singing. If you ask me, it sounds more like you’re raping a bullfrog.”

After glaring at Crowley for both his lack of tact and the insinuation of him being gay with their resident fallen angel, Dean turned back to Cas and put it as delicately as he possibly could.

“Crowley—while having some of the worst taste in music ever—is actually right for once, and I’m half-tempted to strangle you in your sleep.”

“So says the man as infatuated with cheap sleaze rock as he is in cheap women and a certain fallen angel.” Crowley bit.

Scoffing, Dean rolled his eyes. “At least Alto Reed can play. Kenny G sounds like he picked up the sax and shoved it up his—“

Sam slammed his hands down on the breakfast table, making the dishes jump and clatter. A bit of Kevin’s orange juice sloshed over the rim, splattering on the wood. The bickering ceased immediately as their calmest roommate lost his temper.

“Easy there, Moose.” Crowley drawled in warning.

Stabbing an index finger at the former demon, Sam yelled, “No! We are not debating Kenny G’s brass section to Bob Seger’s again! Not happening, not after last time.”

Before anyone could reply, Sam carried on. “Crowley, do you remember your crying jag that lasted for three damn days after Dean said that Kenny G was a talentless, frizzy-headed wannabe bitch of a musician?”

Crowley had the decency to look mildly ashamed. **Very** mildly.

Chuckling at himself, Dean laced his fingers behind his head. “’Cause he is. As if Kenny G could ever beat Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band.”

Swinging that finger over to his older brother, Sam whipped out a quick bitchface before shouting, “Dean, shut your damn mouth for five minutes, would you? Half of this argument is because of your shit-starting, so don’t act so proud!

“We are grown men who’ve dealt with shit no one out there could even dream of! Castiel, you’re a fallen angel thousands of years old, at least. Crowley, you’re at least a few hundred years old, although you can tack on more because time works differently in Hell. Dean, you’re thirty-four, Kevin, you’re almost twenty, and I’m thirty. How are we not able to cooperate and settle the matter like adults?”

Kevin scoffed and looked around the table, nodding to each man as he counted them off. “Uh, let’s see. I’m a prophet of God, he’s an ex-demon who murdered my mother and my girlfriend and kidnapped me twice, he’s an ex-angel, and you and Dean are hunters. Yeah, we’re a healthy mix.”

Whipping around so fast that his hair actually stung his face, Sam gave Kevin a “look”. “Don’t even start with me, Tran. Don’t even.”

“So what do you suggest, Sam? A peaceful conclusion doesn’t seem likely.” Cas sassed. He was picking it up quickly from both Dean and Crowley.

Tearing at his hair, Sam snarled, “Then no music! If we can’t agree like fucking adults, I’ll dismantle the intercom and you can listen to your crap in your room. I’m done!”

Crowley’s eyes widened in realization. “Don’t you lay a bloody finger on that intercom, Moose. Music is the only thing keeping me sane in this hellhole, and I ruled Hell, so that should mean something.”

Dean sat back, content to watch this argument unfold. Cas, while still confused and hurt about his singing, copied Dean’s example. Kevin continued to eat his breakfast, curious, but hungrier than anything. Deciphering that dick Metatron’s script was harder than it looked.

Sam, oblivious to their audience, replied, “Y’know what, Crowley? I don’t give a damn whether you’re happy or not. What have you done around here to help out? You won’t help on cases, and you only look over the files when you’re bored. Why should we care about your state of content?”

Crowley stood and thundered, “Because I know you can cure demons, I know where you live, and I think these facts would be particularly useful to Abaddon, therefore I could strike a deal with her. I was King of the Crossroads, once.”

Sam scoffed and brushed his hair out of his face. “Crowley, if you could do that successfully, you already would’ve done it. You know as well as I do that Abaddon would stab you in the back, so don’t play dumb. You’re stuck with us, because if you go out there and a demon sees you, you’re basically powerless, and you’ll get yourself killed.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes in a way that was almost Cas-like and roared, “I don’t bloody care! I am sick of wearing cheap clothes! Before you two idiots came along, I had the finest tailors in the world at my disposal, and now I’m wearing a fucking plaid jacket! You two ruined everything! I’ve half a mind to disembow— **OI!** Did you just throw a grapefruit at me, Moose?”

Sam, who had indeed just launched a grapefruit at Crowley’s head, looked around the table at their snickering audience before coming back with the pithy, “Uh, no?”

Before Crowley leap across the table and ramble about disemboweling the Winchester brothers, Dean turned his laughter into a loud coughing jag before clearing his throat awkwardly. Looking at the table, he tried to give the conversation some semblance of maturity.

“Guys, guys, chill. Sam’s right. Kinda. We need to act like adults, and as adults, I say we put it to a vote. All in favor of Cas practicing his singing in private or not at all?”

Crowley snarled, but raised his hand in the air, along with everyone else’s. Castiel was the only one without a hand above his head, and he looked around the table as if they had all betrayed him.

Looking heartbroken for a fraction of a second, Cas then stiffened. “Well if you don’t like my singing, you could have just said so earlier. I thought it was quite peaceful.”

Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, Dean tried to backtrack, feeling like he just punched a kid in the face for being a kid. “Cas, I’m sure it’ll be great once you, y’know, get the hang of it, but we can’t listen to it every day, just like we can’t listen to Kevin’s gangster crap—“

“Watch it, old man!”

“—Sam’s emo girly music—“

“Damnit Dean, it’s not emo; it’s alternative!”

“—Crowley’s shitty slow jazz—“

“Bite your tongue, Rocky. Kenny G is an astounding artist, and don’t you bloody well forget it!”

“—or Foreigner, who’s really only good for the occasional song or two. My point is, your throat singing has been the only thing we’ve heard for weeks, and it’s making us all edgy.”

Castiel dragged his eyes across his companions. “This is how you all feel?”

Awkwardly, Sam and Kevin mustered up a grumbled “yeah”, and Crowley proudly proclaimed, “oh most sincerely” while keeping his glare on the youngest Winchester.

Standing, Cas placed his napkin on the table and announced, “Excuse me,” before walking out of the room stiffly.

 

It was a week later, and Cas still hadn’t played any of his music, whether it be orca mating calls (don’t ask) or the Dead Kennedys (no one knows where he picked that up from). In fact, he’d barely left his room, even to hunt down a wendigo in Tennessee. He had just stayed inside until the others stopped knocking on his door and left without him. Well, everyone other than Crowley, who was still throwing a bitch fit over no longer being able to boil someone’s insides for messing up his breakfast (Kevin was still learning to cook real food, and that fact didn’t make the blackened eggs any better).

After they returned bloody and tired from hunting the wendigo a few days later, Dean, Sam, and Kevin parted their separate ways to sleep off the fight. Instead of sleeping though, Dean knocked on Cas’s door, and without waiting for permission to enter, he strolled on in and sat on the bed, too tired to be baffled as to why Cas was upside down in the corner with a glass of water to his lips as he tried to speak.

“Hey Cas, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Gurgling something around a mouthful of water, Cas swallowed awkwardly, resulting in a good amount of water spilling over his reddening face.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean sprawled his legs out and announced, “I take that as a yes.”

He received a gurgle in reply.

“I wanted to say sorry about the other morning. Your uh, singing,” it took a lot of restraint to hold back the air quotes, “may not be my favorite thing in the world, but I was a dick about it.  So what I’m tryin’ to say is—man, what the hell are you doing?”

Castiel successfully swallowed the water in his mouth, and stated, “I have spasms in my diaphragm, and the Internet said to do this.”

“Hiccups. You have hiccups. No, just take a shot of lemon juice and you’re good. Cas, get up before you fall over or drown yourself. Try not to listen to anything the Internet says whenever possible, ‘kay?”

Somehow maneuvering into a seated position with frightening flexibility, Cas looked up at Dean patiently. “Lemon juice, you say?”

Nodding absently, Dean scrubbed at his face with his hands, wondering how many days he’d been without sleep. “Yeah. But anyway, I’m sorry about the whole singing thing. If you want to sing man, you can. It’s just, we can’t take it going on all hours of the day.”

“Well Dean, as a human, I have to sleep and eat sometime, so I can’t sing all day.” Cas reminded him gently.

Rolling his eyes and trying not to groan, Dean responded to that obvious factoid with, “Yeah man, I know that. It’s a saying, but that’s not important. I’m just trying to say I’m sorry.”

“You are forgiven.”

They sat in a moment of comfortable silence before a Scottish drawl pulled their attention to the short man smirking in the doorway. “Watching you two lovebirds touches me right where my bathing suit goes.”

Growling deep in his throat, Dean stood and shouted, “Goddamnit Crowley, we’re not gay!”

“Dean, I really don’t like it when you use my father’s name in vain.” Cas reminded.

Tearing at his hair, the exhausted hunter groaned in exasperation before muttering, “Why the fuck did I agree to everyone living in my bunker?”


End file.
